


Bunker Buddies

by tekowrites



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Bondage, Crack, Dildos, First Time, Kinky, Masturbation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Molestation, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Other, Peeping, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shower Sex, misuse of multiple household items
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:22:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27191014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tekowrites/pseuds/tekowrites
Summary: Dean's finally found the privacy he's always wanted, to jerk off to his heart's content. Except, something's noticed, and wants to lend a helping hand. Or cord. Or cable. Or chair. Or shower.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester/Bunker
Comments: 2
Kudos: 37





	Bunker Buddies

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is intended as kinky crack, and is not meant to be taken seriously at all.
> 
> I've been wanting to write this fic for ages. It's absolutely, purely, self-indulgent. It comes with a bonus scene that I'm not sure anyone would want to read, because it's an even more self indulgent kink, so I've left it out for now.
> 
> Warnings for dubious consent on Dean's part, and lack of consent at the start, and for various household items joining in on the fun.  
> Oh, and this fic has not been edited, or beta read, at all. But any regulars should know that by now. XD

The bunker is old.

It creaks sometimes, like some metallic parts are bending with age and letting you know that they’re not happy about it. It also drips. Pipes will leak behind walls, and you’d spend quite a bit of your evening hearing the dirp drip drip plop, of water escaping. Wind howls sometimes. _So_ not like it does in Frozen, fantastical and cool. Not that he’s seen Frozen. Not that anything with siblings bonding and teaming up to take down bad guys is of interest to him, or might make a man shed a solitary tear of understanding. No way.

Anyways, yes, this howling is creepy and spooky, especially since by all means there’s nowhere for it to be coming from. He doesn’t care what Sam says, there is no way vents make that hooting sound. And if Sammy wants to check, well, there’s no one stopping him from doing so.

Still, the bunker is the first home to really feel like home after spending a chunk of adulthood feeling the thickness of motel mattresses decline, discovering that yellow lightbulbs are there to mask yellow water, amassing a wealth of knowledge on popular motel paintings, and mastering the art of jerking off in silence within the narrow time frame of Sammy doing field work, Sammy taking a shower, or Sammy going out on an errand. His first week of absolute privacy ended up with him chaffed and walking funny, blissed out on the idea of not having to constantly freeze at the sound of footsteps, someone coughing, and the hot water in the shitty motel running out.

So Dean loves the bunker, with all its creepy hooting, leaking faults, and unexpected gusts of air that manage to find the one area you forgot to cover with a blanket and which sends you into a full body shudder.

He shows his love in different ways, he oils what hinges needs oiling, he fixes what cabinets need fixing, he patches up rips, sands down edges, and applies a coat or two of varnish where needed. He treats the bunker right, because that’s how he knows to be with things that are kind to him. He isn’t going to change the carpets, put any wallpaper up, or add a painting. Douching something up isn’t his style because unlike some other occupants of the bunker, he respects the classics, and pays homage to their dutiful years of service.

Doesn’t mean the bunker doesn’t sometimes creep him out.

Take for example, the time he was having a lazy post hunt wank, not really going anywhere with it, just focusing on the feel of the slow buildup, knowing that no interruptions were coming, Sammy having crashed in his own bed an hour ago. He was getting there too, knew the minute he shot, sleep would claim him, but not wanting to give in to the pleasure so soon.

That’s when it happened. His tv turned on, and the DVD started playing, right where he’d left off last time. He’d frozen mid stroke, not just a little spooked. Soon enough, he reasoned it must have been an electric fault, yeah, one of those extra boosts of electric currents. The tv was old anyways, the DVD had seen better days too. Pawn shop merch, eh?

It was easier to go to sleep after that, because he lost the erection.

Another incident took place when he was combing the artifacts’ storage room. He was knee deep in dust and ancient summoning knickknacks, when the door creaked, closed shut, then the death of the lone flickering lightbulb followed.

That wasn’t terrifying, in fact, it was par of the course of being surrounded by the supernatural nearly all the time. What made it peculiar was the fact that, even though he knew he was walking towards the door, which should have been a mere 20 feet away, it felt like he’d been at it for a few minutes already, never quite reaching the door. Which granted, could be because he was walking cautiously in total darkness, but it didn’t explain the fact things constantly brushed his ass as he walked. In fact, he stopped several times to swipe at whatever it was that was for all intents and purposes, actively molesting him.

Sammy opened the door a few moments later, ending the looping nightmare. Dean made sure to put something heavy down as a doorstop when he went back to change the lightbulb later.

He’s not an idiot though, so he scans the place for any supernatural activity, an EMF in hand, a bag of salt under one arm, and a flashlight because, yeah, he’s not taking any chances with the lights.

There was nothing, nadda, zilch, and if the EMF roared to life, it was only around the storage area, which made sense, but the weak blip was hardly worth an investigation.

So he left it alone.

***

Dean has a favourite chair. One of those wingbacks, with fancy fabric that caught your imprint when you sat on it, the tracks left by fingers, and even your finger indents. Velvet. But not like the cheap coarse one for pouches. This was expensive shit, and if you ran your hand on it, the colour flipped. He’d dragged it out of one of the other rooms, until he had it sitting at the main table they conducted all their work and meetings on.

He always made sure to check his butt print when he got up, making a show of it, so Sammy knows he’d recognize if someone else sat on it while they were gone, or Sam somehow forgot that this was Dean’s chair only, no other tushes permitted. He’d even developed a habit of stroking the fabric while he sat on it, feeling the texture shift, painting in the opposite direction and then clearing it away, setting it to rights. His fingers sometimes go numb or get sensitized by the end of the repetitive motion. The resulting tingling sensation is its own kind of pleasure.

It's his commander chair, his throne. He’s not controlling dragons and peasants while sitting on it, but it’s his. Because he called dibs on it, and dad isn’t there to say he can’t and he has to share. It ruins all his fun that Sammy isn’t actually interested in poaching the chair.

He’s in a food coma, slouched down the chair, half asleep while some show plays on the laptop, a dude with a boss mustache and suit has people guessing answers on the board. The chair’s not the best place to fall asleep, and he almost gets up, but it feels like he’s sunken in the chair and it’s not as easy to drag his heavy body out of it. Plus, moving like that against the fabric of the chair, it’s almost like he’s getting a massage, the raised diamond pockets of fluff working his muscles.

Except, he knows he’s not moving. So maybe the chair is moving? Or he’s already asleep and dreaming, because now the cushion cradling his ass is also moving like waves under him, rubbing over some tension filled areas.

He opens his eyes later, much later, feeling relaxed, and well rested. The clock on the laptop reads some God awful AM hour and he tries to drag himself to his feet to finish the rest of his sleep in bed. Tries, because his legs are like jelly, his body loose limbed and noodle like. Eventually, he manages to steady himself, knowing it was just residual sleep pulling him back down the chair, and pats the chair in question.

The sound of scrapping makes him turn around, and he looks at the chair, wondering if it moved. But that’s just silly. So he stretches and gets on with his trip to bed, and wonders if they should buy one of those Lazyboy chairs, built in massager. That was what the dream was probably about anyway.

Dean gets in bed, jeans on the floor and only in boxers, he drags the thin blanket over his body and goes back to sleep. He’s in another dream soon after, she’s pretty, he thinks, can’t really see her face, but she’s got a vicious grip on his cock so he assumes she’s pretty enough that he’s given her the go ahead.

The feel of her hands jacking him off is a little off, like her fingers are thin but long enough to twist around, but that’s his only complaint, as the strokes are almost a perfect replication of how he likes it. He moves too, hips thrusting up towards the stimulation, trying to get there faster, no guilt at coming first, knowing she’s a figment of his imagination and no reciprocation is required. The grip gets even tighter and he can’t breathe, can’t move, stuck in place until the strokes which had slowed, pick up speed, and he almost wants to drag her and kiss her, or kiss his subconscious for remembering that little small detail of making it last just that bit longer before he finally comes.

When he wakes up, the sheets are a mess, they’re twisted all over his legs, his boxers are sticky, but so were parts of the sheet that had somehow, gathered in his lap, ray-like creases surrounding the wet spot.

He gets up and hopes Sammy isn’t in the laundry room when he drops them, and his boxers for a spin. The minute he manages to get them peeled off his skin without giving himself a Brazilian that is.

***

It happens more than once. Which is enough to get him suspicious again. He can’t exactly bring it up at breakfast, or ever really, because, saying ‘ _hey I think the chair is giving me massages, and my bed sheets like to lend me a helping wank’_ sounds ludicrous in his head, let alone spoken out loud. It never happens when he’s sober or awake, but it’s vivid enough that it can’t be a dream all the time, even if it’s an enjoyable one. Because, there’s something awesome about not having to do all the work for once.

Still doesn’t make it cool that something is trying to fuck with his head though, or not asking for his permission to do it.

He doesn’t sit on the chair for a few days, leaves the bed without sheets -not difficult as they were all waiting on a wash and tumble anyways- and lastly, he changed up his tried and trusted wank routine.

His balls got a lot of love that night. He focused on that, and on the tip of his dick, twisting just under the head, rubbing that one particular spot, and in a stroke of genius, he stuck his hand under his shirt and tweaked his nipple. It wasn’t something he actually enjoyed or did often, but it was different enough that he’d catch it. Except that, maybe the idea of there actually being someone or something watching, made it surprisingly pleasant.

In no time, his hand was coated, and he pulled the small towel he’d set aside for cleanup and got it all off. His boxers back on, blanket on top, lights off, he dozed.

He was almost disappointed when nothing happened. In fact, the whole week, he’d held his breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop, for something to prove him right so he could...

And that gave him pause. Could what exactly? Catch whoever/whatever it was and stop them? Catch them and find out why and how they were doing it? And then what?

Then it’s back to his Busty Asian Beauties sessions, quick tug before bed, sleep, hunt, and repeat. Which he liked and enjoyed just fine.

It’s not like he’d started to enjoy this too.

***

After a month of radio silence, Dean’s doubts are still not confirmed, but he’ll be damned if it turns out this was his first slide into lunacy. So he takes matters into his own hands, and decides it’s time to have the conversation, time to lay it all out, time to find some answers, with his ghost or whatever, that is. He makes sure Sammy’s off to bed before he walks into the storage room, doesn’t set the doorstopper, and closes the door behind him.

Show of faith.

And also so Sammy doesn’t overhear for whatever reason and drag him into the nearest mental asylum, or try to douse him in holy water.

“I know you’re in here.”

Complete utter silence greets him. He’s not surprised. “Listen douchebag, I’m onto you.”

Which, yeah not the best way to get started, but well, sitting there talking to yourself wasn’t cool either. So he tries to soften his tone, lure it out, once he finally knows what he’s dealing with, he’ll _deal_ with it. Probably in the shanking sense. He’s not kidding himself into this not ending up that way eventually, because nothing good ever came out of ignoring the supernatural elephant in the room, just pure disaster.

“I just wana have a chat. Come out, Casper. Give me a sign,” the rest Dean muttered under his breath, “so I know I’m not going stir crazy.”

Something clattered to the floor. Dean walked a few steps in to see what it was, and noticed that it was one of two special ceremonial candles that he’d seen on the third or fourth shelf amongst the other ritual and summoning paraphernalia. They’d never touched these because they were engraved all over, slightly curved, as if the mold was wonky, and had some scored and other deep grooves in elaborate designs. They weren’t that thick, but were heavy enough that it was impossible that this one could just topple over because of some wind. Dean picked it up, fully expecting the thing to light up with a flame in some cinematic special effects way.

When nothing happened, Dean placed the candle back on the shelf.

Well, he’d tried, and lunacy was actually one hazard of the job, so he shouldn’t be surprised. At least his manifested in great orgasms.

He turned to leave, when the candle fell to the floor once more. “Better not be any fucking rats in here.”

Then the other one fell, and all too soon a dozen or so items were flying to the floor, the shelves rattling. He’d gotten his sign.

“Woah! Stop! No need to throw crap!”

Everything stilled again, growing quiet. He was more than a little spooked, but the thrill of knowing he was right and his instincts weren’t rusting, made it worthwhile.

Dean picked up the candle again, checked it over, and then said, “if you understand me, light this candle.” He said it because it would help him gauge the degree of power whatever this was, had. But also, because he wanted to see the candle in action, and Sammy was a stickler for researching it to the full extent of knowledge available in the world, before he’d let Dean light it up. It didn’t happen. The candle didn’t even pretend to light, no sparks, no wriggle. Dead. Well, more accurately inanimate, but same thing. Maybe he’d mistaken a small earthquake for something else. But then, on the floor, the rest of the kamikazes started shaking, almost vibrating.

Which meant maybe it didn’t have any Pyrokinesis abilities, because Dean doubted it was sparing him a shower if the sprinklers decided to dose him for starting a fire amid precious and dangerous shit. But if fire wasn’t in its repertoire, that cancelled out why the cold spots didn’t exist. If no power was cancelling them out, then what was going on?

On a hunch, he placed the candle down on the floor, and watched as it immediately started to vibrate along with the rest of the paraphernalia, stopping immediately once Dean picked it up again. He tried the same with a pair of leather gloves, plump stone statues of cats, the candle again. Whatever it was certainly had domain over things touching the floor. It couldn’t move Dean though. He continued his experiment, and fished in his pocket for something, anything to test his next theory on. There was a bunch of waded tissue paper from a diner he’d stopped at, a receipt and loose change.

He placed a quarter on the shelf, left the receipt in his hand, and balled up the tissue so it was a little more solid before he dropped it on the floor.

The coin bounced to the floor, the tissue danced along with everything else, but the receipt, the lightest of them all, hadn’t budged an inch.

The power was in the floor, in the furniture and anything touching said furniture.

This wasn’t any Goddamned ghost, wasn’t some malicious spirit or monster hiding in the basement of supernatural knickknacks.

It was the bunker.

***

He sort of remembers something like that. That if something is imbued with enough supernatural or magical energy, that it becomes its own entity.

Either that or he’s just seen way too much Warehouse 13.

Weird to think the bunker was alive. Even weirder to think the bunker liked giving him mind-blowing orgasms, watched him jerk off, learned his go to tug and twist, noticed he liked the feel of soft fabric, that he had a favorite chair...son of bitch, that he watched porn if he needed to turn off his lizard brain.

He was fucked. Fucked by the bunker no less.

Because how exactly did one go about exorcising a horny house?

He looks at the assortment of jars, candles, stones, pouches and boxes and guesses he’ll just have to find out. Everything on the floor wriggles, fucking _wriggles_ when he looks at them next, before he exclaims, laughing “I’m not bending down where you can catch me off guard, so you’d better clean this mess up yourself.”

It would have stayed funny, if the bunker didn’t suddenly deploy a number of ropes and wires, a sash from somewhere and twine, and began to collect the falling items, slithering on the floor, and then climbing like vines over the exposed storage shelves, arranging everything where it had been before its freefall.

Dean stayed very still, throat dry as he immediately recognized what he’d once mistaken as slender but long strong fingers, flicking his quarter back at him, before winding itself around the cable reel again.

He’d been getting his rocks off to cable, the kind you snip and connect, not the one you watch. It makes him uncomfortable that he’s not completely freaked out by it.

Doesn’t mean he wasn’t going to do his darnedest to lay the spirit of the bunker to rest though, he still had principles, whether or not his cock agreed.

And he did, spent the better part of three weeks reading up about haunted mansions, spraying the walls with holy water and vinegar, salting corners, even smudging the rooms with burnt sage and rosemary sprigs.

But the bunker’s already shown its cards to him, and so, has no qualms about showing him that none of the methods have worked. The cable slithers into bed with him, caressing his calf, retreating a little if he starts kicking at it, before it tries to tickle the bottom of his feet, almost waiting for a reaction.

The next day he walks around the bunker reading a bunch of really ridiculously long mantras that come out as if he’s a spluttering car motor, and at night, the cable is replaced with a fancy braided cord from the heavy velvet curtain in the room where he’d obtained his chair.

It stays there, innocent and inanimate, and he’d almost believe nothing sinister was going to come out of it, if it weren’t for the fact it didn’t have legs, but had managed to cross over several rooms and a kitchen, to be where it currently resided. On his bed.

He pays it no mind. As much as someone expecting mischief can pay something no mind, and gets ready for some shut eye. He sweeps the cord off the bed, and it doesn’t make any sudden moves, or shoots out like a cobra to strike his throat, so he ignores it, gets under the covers and throws the nearest hard object at the light switch, as they varied depending on what crap ended up on his nightstand. In this case it was the pocket-sized chants book.

About five minutes later in the dark, he heard the slithering of fabric, and ignored it, closing his eyes firmly, waiting for the bunker to get the message. That lasted until he felt the cord coil over his leg, and something tickle the exposed flesh. The tassels, he soon realized, were a torture device and the bunker’s attempt at subduing him, and it was working.

Wherever the little strands touched and slid, he tingled and tried to shift away, trying to brush them off, only to have the other end of the cord, slide up his boxers and the tassels wriggle there. By the time they’d made it to his sides and ribs, he was wrestling with the blanket, trying to contain his laughter, hands on one end trying to pry it off, and the cord running off to tickle under his foot, then up through his boxers, shooting up to his shirt inside his pits. And he’s howling now, attempting to muffle the sound into the pillow, when the tassels run over his nipples and somehow _that_ is like a zinger to his excitable body and gets a rise out of him. He flops onto his stomach, trapping the cord between him and the bed, careful not to crush his budding boner in the process.

Which gives the cord just the right amount of space to slither down and poke at the flesh.

After weeks of playing cat and mouse, of furtive touches and gropes, of sliding wires and frustrations, Dean gives in. Tells himself there’s no reason not to enjoy what’s on offer while he looks for ways to eradicate it. Keeping the bunker happy so it didn’t find some way to shut them out ending in them losing their only home, and having to go through safe house after safe house and motel after motel was a priority. He’d finally hung his first poster too, he wasn’t ready to get it down until the tape yellowed with age and the poster started to curl.

Pretending he wasn’t easy this late in the game would be ridiculous, especially since the bunker had his nightly rituals to a T. He turned so he was on his back, hooked his fingers in the boxers, and slid them down. The cord wasted no time at all, looping its length all around him, until his dick is like a fucking golden candy cane and the tassel is poised just over the head, tendrils stroking over his slit in maddeningly soft and ticklish passes, and Dean has to strain his muscles not to thrust into the air seeking more friction.

When his patience runs out and he reaches for the thread, it starts to coil tighter and tighter around his cock and his hand falters to the sheets, gripping tight, as the motion massages his rigid flesh, rubbing over and over under the head then loosening enough that he can catch his breath, before starting up again.

The second tassel dangles down and brushes his balls and he wants to scream at the difference of the tight grip, and the featherlight touches to sensitive flesh. He’s rocking into the cord by the time it’s pulling and stretching his cock like it’s stuck in a spring, one, two, three tugs and it eases, keeps him on edge, face buried in the pillow, thighs wide apart and moving.

One minute he’s almost there, feeling the cord pulling and jerking him upwards. the next he feels the tassels teasing his hole and he’s shooting, all over his stomach, and nearly to his chin, the cord in gunk ruin as it milks the last of it, dragging it out.

It’s polite enough to give him space as he wipes it all away, before sliding over his chest, and mimics a nuzzle. And Dean’s relaxed enough, loose limbed and fuzzy enough to kiss the cord before zonking out.

***

He comes to his senses when he wakes up, does a send off ritual, reluctantly consulting the witch’s handbook on commanding and harnessing the power of spirits. He’s sure the reason the vents keep blowing out air to snuff his candles, is nothing more sinister than the bunker making fun of his efforts. It’s like it knew he didn’t really have all forty ingredients and wasn’t about to go out of his way to collect ear of salamander, crow’s beak and whatever the hell pearls of newt was supposed to be.

Besides, his liquefying half hour on the chair later confirmed it. Whatever material existed under the plush seat, nearly went through the fabric and ripped his jeans as it moved over every part of him, kneading like it was thousand hands and fingers digging into his flesh. At one point, he had to lean over the table and get his lower half as flatly pressed as he could to the seat, so the vibrations and pointed waves dragged over his premium, what it could reach of his cock, and anything else touching the seat.

It wasn’t enough though, and he’d seriously contemplated sitting so he was facing the chair, to try and get as close as he could, but the risk of Sammy walking in was too high as it is.

So he picked himself up, went to his room, and sighed in relief when he saw the cord slide towards him, circling his right leg.

He made sure to take his shirt off this time.

***

It’s the shower curtain next, chasing him as he soaps up, clinging to his wet back as if there’s static between them, and hums as it slips between his legs, widens his stance to give it more room, and it molds to his body like a suit. The soap makes it a sensual slide, tingling as the curtain shifts, tries to lift despite the weights in the bottom keeping it grounded. But soon enough it’s nearly giving him a wedgie, and enough of it is wrapped around his cock to simulate a cavity for him to thrust in.

And Dean’s just watching as if the experience doesn’t involve him, it isn’t his body and this was just some mere dream. The clatter of Sam’s fancy conditioner -which Dean borrows but never returns- to the floor wakes him up a little. It rolls around the floor for a bit, almost buzzing, and he gets it then, likes the way the bunker thinks.

The cap is off and a good amount is poured out in the little curtain pouch, before the material wraps tighter around him and the slide in and around is pure heaven. The squelching is so loud he’s almost embarrassed, but there’s not much room for that as he grips the metal bar, and follows the rhythm. There’s enough warmth and slick that the start is just a pleasurable buzz, but then it grows into something big, not enough friction for it to give that tell-tale tingle that he feels in his spine, but more a sensation capsule, locked under the rain of water, the steam of the bathroom, with invisible bunker hands squeezing and releasing him, teasing, knowing he likes a rougher hand, a quicker tempo as the curtain links knock into each other. He pries one hand off the bar and wraps it around the plastic around his length and takes over.

His palm is quicker, the curtain now tighter, and he’s gasping, moans drowned out by the water or not, he doesn’t know and can’t care, trying to ascend to the peak of the buildup, and when it happens, his come shoots inside, fills what little space there is as his toes curl and back stiffens and he’s transfixed by the sight of it rolling inside the transparent pouch.

Dean takes a break, and leans against the wall, catching his breath, then uses the detachable shower head to wash the splash of his come from the curtain. It tries to wrap around him several times, and he dodges, a little sensitized and not wanting to risk the sting.

Once everything is clean, he’s out of the shower, but he turns around and sticks his tongue out at the curtain. A gust of wind, or will sends it rippling forward, until it slaps his ass.

Dean doesn’t terribly mind.

***

It’s only slightly his fault what happens next. Only a smidgen.

The DVD was tucked in away in the farthest corner of all his belongings, for one of those freaky mood nights, but he hadn’t broken out the case since they’d migrated their lives to the bunker, and not since the sentient thing had decided to take Dean’s pleasure in its own hand.

But he’d gotten complacent since sex became constant, already thinking about variety, other ways to chase the thrill of the first few times. It was strictly for inspirational purposes.

He’d just miscalculated who else might get inspired by the _Busty Asian Beauties Anal Bonding_ video.

The last hunt had taken nearly a week, scouting and taking turns with night stakeouts, busy staying alive and in whole pieces. He barely remembers the shower after, half convinced something was scrubbing the grime off of him, something that wasn’t his hands. He’s asleep on his feet, otherwise he thinks he might have noticed. Then again, the bunker had completely lulled him into a false sense of security, which he regrets falling for, when he wakes up blindfolded, gagged and tied up.

Something rolled on top of his chest. Something that had smooth parts and grooves. As it rolled, the heft of it and its shape became clearer in his mind. The ceremonial candle. He was more than a little alarmed now, trying to recall if there was any wax play involved in the video and drawing a fucking blank.

So he did what any sane person would do and tested out his binds, and found to his dismay, that the bunker had taken a course in shibari, because all his wriggling had done was get the bindings to squeeze his pecs, and rub across both nipples.

Then the tickle torture began. Whatever feathery hell the bunker had found, was brushing peaks, wriggling into divots and painting designs all over his naked limbs, and as he shuddered and struggled, the restraints, whatever they were made of, tightened. It was a constant cycle of sensation, and even though he was mad as hell at being ambushed, the ongoing porno in his own head that now featured him, wouldn’t stop sending signals to his proudly stiffening pole.

After a while, he was like a live wire, every inch of skin was sensitive, pulsing with heat, and every brush across his leaking cock made him pitch his hips towards it. He felt the loosening of the bindings on his hands and feet which had both been bound close to his body, and thought it was finally nearing his big fireworks finale, until the slack in the binding pulled his legs and arms apart. He tried to move them back, close his legs, but they were clearly fastened again so that he was basically spread eagled.

Then the candle rolled off him, and landed with a soft thump somewhere between his legs. He tenses his muscles, suddenly all too awake as he recalled the contents of the DVD. He was no innocent flower, but getting his ass fucked was not on the list of things he wanted to cross, with the bunker or anyone.

But it’s clear that the bunker was getting smarter, if not bolder, and soon enough it was trying to distract him again, thin threads moving against his body, touching everything, strips of soft fabric, textures and what must have been the points of a hairbrush, all at once were pressed to his flesh.

Something poured over his dick, trickled to coat his balls and over his taint, dripping down the cleft of his ass. Then all too familiar the cords were back, slipping and sliding over his greased up dick, that had only slightly faltered when realization that the bunker was after his cherry had yanked back some of that blood right back to his working brain cells.

He felt an odd, hard but round object press onto his taint, and before he could struggle and try to detach it somehow, fully expecting it to press into his ass next, the thing came alive. It buzzed, incredibly loud now that his other senses were on break, and the vibrations tapped into something inside him that sent soft flickers up core and spine.

The cord continued to jack him through it, tassels dipping into the leaking precome and painting it over his slit like a brush, and all too soon he needed to come, legs restless but restrained, chest heaving and body trembling.

Then everything stopped.

Dean cursed like a sailor, his muffled _mother fucking dickbag_ lost in the gag as the cord went around his balls and staved off his orgasm.

Nothing happened for a good solid chunk of time, even though he could feel the straps on him moving, could hear the shuffle of fabric on fabric. Any impatience for more nearly disappeared when he felt something against his hole.

He was sure he knew what was knocking against his gate, trying to invade, even as it swirled around, picking up on whatever lubrication had poured down. Its tip was the giveaway, and traced all over his hole, not pushing, _not yet_ he reminded himself, just getting him to feel what being touched there felt like.

The vibrations started shortly after, and the cord loosened enough to slowly stroke up and down, building up his orgasm so he was back on the edge of it. Then the candle dipped its tip, barely inside, when Dean summoned up all his will to thrash around, regardless of how tight the bindings got.

Everything stopped again, the vibrations against his taint, the stroking, and the candle’s progress. He realized to his dismay, that he was still hard, and that the cord still had a vice grip on his balls. All his thrashing had resulted his blindfold loosening, so he counted at least that as a win. Though whether seeing would help any, he wasn’t sure.

It was a moot point though, as it loosened all the way, and was dragged off his eyes by what he could now clearly make out, as a telephone wire.

Once his eyes adjusted to the light in the room -one lone bulb-, he could make out a bunch of things, like the rope on his chest, all the way down to his torso, all his suit ties, a couple on his thighs, and a couple around his ankles, connected to cables on each side, keeping his legs spread and lifted, via the vents they were dangling from. His hands were tied back with belts, and one tie was strapped across his mouth. Those two he was able to see, only because there was a fucking mirror the size of a dresser, on his bed, in the space between his legs, giving him a front row seat to the show.

He wished the blindfold was still over his eyes, especially when he saw that the end of the rope that travelled down his chest and was digging into his back, was slack only because the bunker had kept it so, as its end was wrapped tightly around the candle that he could clearly see poking out of his ass. His dick was trussed up with gold, rigid and nearly purple with all the blood trapped and kept in, his nipples were red too, slightly chaffed and puffy from the ropes. The buzzing, vibrating thing that had made him leak so much? A fucking electric toothbrush, bristles turned the other side, held there by another loop of fabric and wires crossing over. If it wasn’t happening to him, and to someone else, he would have found it hot. Real hot. Special occasions, want to come like a loose hose, sort of hot. This, he had mixed feelings about.

Truth was, he couldn’t see this going anyway other than what the bunker had in mind. He was desperate for an orgasm and it was holding him literally by the balls, every time he’d resisted the candle or his hole being touched, his orgasm was stopped, pleasure taken away. He could take it like a man, and then have a stern talking to with the bunker. Or raze it to the ground, the evil fucking sex dungeon wannabe piece of shit.

And if his legs were trembling and he was cussing out his decision to complain about monotony and playing the DVD, well, that’s just taking part ownership of his mistake. Bunker couldn’t tell fantasy from kink, a note for next time. If there ever was. He was going to break that DVD to fine plastic dust.

His thoughts were interrupted by the resuming of activities, and he watched his slightly deflated cock rise again, immune to his inner turmoil, slave to pleasure and sensation. Slave, _shit_. The toothbrush was on again, tapping into something inside him, teasing little bursts of pleasure, and for a ridiculous moment, he wondered if the candle was going to reach the same place. He wasn’t an idiot, he knew all about prostate massages, but he’d never thought about going on a journey of self discovery there, nor had he needed to, not with nonexistent privacy and not when he had other ways of getting off that didn’t involve poking around in his asshole.

The candle pushed in a bit more, rotated and stopped, and Dean tried to relax so as not to rip his asshole apart if the rest of it just shoved in. But it didn’t, the rope from his chest around the candle to under his ass -which he now felt when the candle moved the slightest bit- didn’t move much.

He hazarded a look at the mirror, and though the candle felt huge, it didn’t look that big, and somehow, the only discomfort Dean felt, was more the odd feeling of the candle wedging itself inside, than any burn or stretch. The absence of pain was both a puzzle and a relief, but before he could form a coherent thought as to why, the bindings tightened and the candle slipped another inch or so inside.

It was starting to feel full and uncomfortable, and he couldn’t see why anyone would willingly do this to themselves, when an extra nudge had the curved part of the candle brush against that bundle of nerves that the vibrations had poorly tried to reach.

His back arched, legs stiff and restless in their bindings, Dean tried to chase the sensation again, and was rewarded with the thrust of the candle in and out, stroking right over his prostate. He couldn’t keep in the sounds that came out, whimpers and gasps muffled by the gag, as all too soon, just the drag of the candle in and out became part of the pleasure, the odd shape, the texture of the candle, all part of the package that had him panting, sweating and shuddering. He wanted to come, had to, but not while the cord had a vice grip on his cock and balls.

So Dean begged, behind silk ties, with his eyes and moans he begged the bunker for just that extra push, that extra give before he grew delirious with the pleasure of a thousand sparks shooting up his spine and making him clench the candle so it drove in more, deeper.

It must have worked, or it might have been part of the bunker’s plan the entire time, because once his hands were free, feet no longer stretched wide and raised, cord no longer restricting blood flow to his poor cock, the first thing Dean did, wasn’t to pull the candle out or remove the gag, but to jerk his cock, matching the speed of the thrusts even as his hands were near numb from inaction, until he was a juddering, trembling mess, coming and coming in an endless stream, body shaking, falling apart like his strings were cut and every limb was now left hanging in different directions.

He doesn’t remember the last time he’d had an orgasm so intense, and unbidden, a smile etched itself on his face. He might forgive the bunker after all.

***

He’s in the shower some other time, when the curtain moves, but this time, it isn’t to wrap around his body. In fact, the curtain is moving further away, letting a bit of a breeze in, almost as if it is reaching for something. Something clunks to the floor, and when he turns around to see what it was, his mouth turns stern at the curtain brandishing the toilet brush like a trophy.

“No way. Put that thing back before I kick your ass down.”

If curtains could whimper, Dean knew this one would. But he doesn’t drop the Blue Steel look until the scrubber clatters to the floor and the curtain is back shielding his ass from the cool draft.

He’s still thinking about it a week later, even though the bunker is being obedient and giving him space, like it knew it fucked up big time and is trying to win him over again.

He can’t shake it off his mind, and it’s messed up that now when he walks in to take a leak, he has to sit down so he doesn’t look at the brush, innocently leaning towards the wall.

So when it’s his turn to get the groceries, for the first time ever, he skips over the cans, skips over the beer cases and skips over the snack aisle directly to the cleaning aisle. Virgin territory. He was born to fix and leave a supernatural smudge behind, but today he’s on a mission: fucking things, having orgasms, the bunker business. He’s sure that looking at the selection in the clinical fluorescent lights, the middle of the day, surrounded by people, will make him come to his senses, make him leave and then give himself a stern talking to. He’s less sure the more he stares at the handles. Curved ones, bumpy ones, ones that start thin, and get thicker, ones with dips for fingers, silicone grip ones, and ones he’s sure were made by perverts.

To serve other perverts.

He leaves the aisle empty handed, goes about buying what he’s really here for, a ton of frozen dinners, a bunch of cans, ramen cups, and sauces. He gets Sammy the green stuff that’s on the list, and crowds the cart with a few cases of beer, and one milk carton as their hostage. The benefits of having a stable place that’s full of storage space. Only when everything is paid for, bagged, and gently and carefully placed inside the car, does Dean finally make his way back inside, walk slowly to the aisle he abandoned, and pick up the handle he knows will stroke just the right spot. He pays with a different card, crumbles the receipt and throws it in the nearest trashcan. What Sammy doesn’t know, won’t hurt him.

***

Sammy might not know, but the bunker sure as hell did. It’s like a damn shark how fast it smelled blood. Dean had to wonder if the bunker could somehow sense his arousal, or body heat, or it was just an intuitive magical abode, because it kept _touching_ him. He’s trying to put everything away, and the bottom cabinets keep closing their doors on his ass. He opens the fridge, and the freezer eases open too, and he could have sworn the cold air was intentionally targeting just his nipples.

Drawers try to catch him as he moves, the cooking utensils rattle where they are, and he nearly jumps out of his skin when he sits on the chair and it sinks, pulling him in. If it wouldn’t come off as crazy, he’d give the chair the talking to he’d nearly given himself

When the leftover bag starts rustling though, he knows it’s not just his imagination.

Soon enough he’s flush against the wall of the shower, water beating down his back, masking the rattling of the curtain links as it molds to his body, angling the handle and rotating, making Dean bite his lips so as not to scream as he feels the bumps rub that little magic spot that lights up his fucking carnival with fireworks, and his legs shake with the strain of keeping upright, while his dick paints the tiles for the occasion.

The brush clatters to the floor and the curtain sags when he does, and while it hangs there, limp, he doesn’t. He’s still a little hard, the curtain having teased him with friction more than a real pounding. Then again, the flimsy fabric could only do so much. He turns around under the beat of the water, trying to decide if he’ll tamper it down or try to see about rubbing it out, when the detachable shower head starts to rattle in its hold, and he grins.

He pulls it off, letting it dangle, and watches as the shower head loops around the brush, tightening around it and slides between his spread legs.

Clicking the metal part down so the shower isn’t shooting water up his ass, but rather coming from the spout, is the last stable action he takes, as the angled handle finds its way home and slides inside.

Later in bed, still floating on a cloud of pleasure, he wonders if there’s a easier way.

***

The box arrives, totally discreet, but anyways, Sammy was off on a research road trip to some special library yadda yadda yadda and wasn’t due in any time soon. Plus, he had no intention of waiting longer than thirty minutes after Sammy’s departure, to break in the new toy, especially since this one required an empty house, and specifically an empty kitchen.

Lucky the kitchen was old and the handles weren’t a single rectangular bar, lucky the second drawer was at the height it was, lucky that it was all steal and metal cabinets, with shiny surfaces, lucky that the first thing he’d done in the bunker was check and oil all the hinges.

Because all of that was going to come in very handy, once he attached the suction cup part of the dildo.

He dismantled the handle first, just so it didn’t keep digging into his skin and leave a bruise. Then he laid down a mat for his knees, washed the ugly looking dildo and set about attaching it, while on his knees, to check the correct angle, mindful to keep the balls down, to avoid getting spanked by the cabinet for the duration of this excursion, should the bunker get overzealous.

The last thing he did before dropping his jeans, was lock the kitchen door. Hopefully he wouldn’t need the extra precaution, but nothing would kill the fantasy faster that having to de-attach from the dildo to explain to Sam what exactly was going on. At least the rattle of the door would give him enough time to dismount.

Just the prep, the realization of what he was about to do, the recollection of the fantasies as he planned how it was going to happen, thought about how he would get off, how he could make this ride the smoothest so far, already had his cock stiffing into its customary curve.

Dean squatted, getting as close to the cabinet as his legs would allow while it was closed, angling his chest down, rump up, and slowly easing onto the greased up dildo. It took a few frustrating adjustments, toes crushed against the bottom of the cabinets, until he finally managed to get the head to slide over his hole.

He eased his feet apart, making room for when he’d have to push back against the drawer, and tested out a few mock thrusts. He was practiced enough with his ass by now, that he knew to clench and angle to get the best possible glide against his inner spark plug.

It didn’t take long to work the silicone inside, inch by inch until it was seated and his ass was nearly flush with the cold metallic panel, and each rocking motion made the drawer slide out, then get pushed back. Once Dean was sure his balls were not in danger of being spanked, he gripped the mat, shuffled forward so he couldn’t feel his feet against the cabinet, and settled in.

Soon the drawer pushed out on its own, making use of his impaled status to push the dildo inside. Dean bit his lower lip, resisting the pushback until the bunker had its rhythm down. The first few bumps against his rump were tentative, but that didn’t last long, and soon the sound of his ass getting a pounding was echoing and bouncing off the walls, filling the space, and he’s whimpering because he may have done too good a job positioning the cock.

The drawer slammed into him and he could barely move or shift without feeling the handles' gaps on either cheek, hole squeezing the cock buried inside when that happens, while one hand is stripping his own neglected cock, tip wet and leaking the more his prostate is massaged.

He wasn’t sure if he’d intended this to be such a rough fuck, but he couldn’t deny that his own whimpers, and the slapping sound of his flesh, while something unseen fucked his brain matter out of him, wasn’t pleasurable. So he rubbed his slit, digging his thumb in, like that first fuck all over again, and shot ropes and lines over the mat.

The drawer slowed, and then slowly retracted back into place, causing the dildo to pop out of his used ass, clenching now that it was empty. Dean slid all the way down, giving his knees and hips a break, gulping air and feeling his sweat starting to cool.

Less than an hour later, he eased the cock in again.

***

Afterwards, his legs are like jelly, his body relaxed and satisfied, brain fizzled and quiet. Which is why, at first he doesn’t recognize the sounds when he comes out of the bathroom. Then he’s alarmed, because the voice is muffled, but it’s definitely Sammy’s voice.

He listens a bit more closely before he relaxes, relieved that it didn’t sound like Sam was in danger, only a different kind of distress. He hears the sound of something clattering to the floor afterwards, and beats a hasty retreat, giving Sammy his privacy.

He slips into his bed, the covers drag themselves over his body and tuck him in. A second before the switch is turned off, and his eyes blink closed to sleep, he catches sight of the desk.

The carved candle is missing. He only needed one guess as where it was. His bunker buddy’s.

Lights out.


End file.
